


come back to me

by kirargent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Light Angst, Nogitsune Allison, Post-Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pressing her lips together in a tight smile, Lydia tilts her head. “All right,” she says, keeping the false smile, “you wanna tell me why we're at the beach in the middle of winter?”</p><p>Allison shrugs. She's draped in a black jacket that's too big for her; she looks astoundingly small. (Although, of course she does, Lydia thinks. She’s been losing weight and losing sleep after the whole ‘being possessed by an ancient evil spirit’ thing. Apparently being temporarily inhabited by a nogitsune wreaks havoc on your physical health.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	come back to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katesbishops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katesbishops/gifts).



> betaed by the ever fantastic [babs](http://punkcorahale.tumblr.com) <3

Lydia stares out over the water and thinks of all the poets who have compared their love to the sea. Vast, relentless; slow-moving and powerful, ceaselessly moving back and forth in the direction of the shore.

Lydia looks at the waters of the Pacific, stirred by the evening winter wind into confused, choppy little waves that fight to move in opposite directions. She doesn't smile, because it's fucking freezing out here and she's sitting on a bench covered in bird shit beside a girl who hasn't spoken in hours, but she does feel a dismal kind of amusement as she thinks, _yes, sure. My love is the sea_.

For the record, Lydia didn't choose the venue. Wearing three coats and still freezing her ass off is not exactly her idea of a good time. She wraps her arms around herself more tightly, glancing at Allison again; this will make the twentieth time she's done so in five minutes. Allison is silent and motionless. The beach is deserted, because no one else is stupid enough to be out here in this weather. They're alone.

Pressing her lips together in a tight smile, Lydia tilts her head. “All right,” she says, keeping the false smile, “you wanna tell me why we're at the beach in the middle of winter?”

Allison shrugs. She's draped in a black jacket that's too big for her; she looks astoundingly small. (Although, of course she does, Lydia thinks. She’s been losing weight and losing sleep after the whole ‘being possessed by an ancient evil spirit’ thing. Apparently being temporarily inhabited by a nogitsune wreaks havoc on your physical health.)

Lydia squeezes her smile tighter, closing her eyes and holding in a huff. “Allison.” She lets a small nip of authority into her tone. “Look, I love you, and I'm here for you no matter what—but you have to talk to me, all right?”

Allison sighs, but the sound is more defeated than annoyed. “I just—wanted to come.”

Lydia lets out a sigh that comes out as a long _hhhmmmm_ , descending in pitch before it tapers off. “Sure,” she says sweetly. “You just wanted to visit the ocean when it's 35 degrees and windy. Makes sense.”

Allison looks at her with a smile-esque twist of lips, a dim flicker of her old, familiar brand of ever-mischievous amusement in her eyes. “Shut up,” she says before she looks away and drops the smile. “Some of us cope with retail therapy; some of us cope in other ways.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. She rolls her lips into her mouth to keep her thoughts internal.

Then she thinks better of that idea, twists her torso to face Allison, and straightens her shoulders. “Allison, sweetheart—you're not coping.”

Allison's eyebrows jump up. Her head rises more slowly.

Lydia greets her with a few innocent blinks, a saccharine smile. “What, did you want me to keep on pretending that everything's fabulous?” She feels a grain of stress slip into her smile, keeps on anyway. “Because newsflash, Allison: it's not. You're quiet, and you're losing weight, and you don't talk to me or Scott or anyone, and you never smile anymore—however you think you're 'coping', Allison? It's not working.”

Allison's gaze is again directed at the sand.

Lydia squeezes her hands together in her lap, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a delicate jerk of her jaw. “And frankly,” she continues, masking everything with a tight smile, “I'm tired of it.” She shifts her weight on the splintery bench, crossing one leg neatly over the other and wishing for the umpteenth time that Allison's chosen moping spot had been one better suited to her thin floral dress.

“Lydia...” Allison shakes her head.

“Yes, Allison?” Lydia says pleasantly.

Allison rests her elbows on her knees, eyes cast out over the water. “Look, Lydia—I'm sorry. I know this hasn't been hard for just me, and I know I haven't been making it any easier for y—”

“No,” Lydia says, prim and sharp.

“I—” Allison looks at her. “No?”

“No,” Lydia repeats. “I'm not looking for an apology, Allison.” The eyes that look back at her are ringed with gray exhaustion and filled by an apathetic uncertainty that Lydia dislikes immediately on sight.

“I'm looking for you to snap the hell out of it and talk to me.” Resentment pushes up behind Lydia's teeth even as she says the words. Clear, transparent statements regarding her personal wants are not Lydia's style. She can't wait for Allison to go back to normal so she can be properly annoyed by this forcing of her hand, instead of just anxious and impatient as she awaits a response that surely won't be the one she wants.

Allison gives a shrug which is, by nature, noncommittal and unhelpful.

Lydia nods, thinking _that seems about right_. She folds her arms loosely over her chest and faces properly forward again, leaning back against the crappy bench.

The late evening sky is a dull, listless gray; small waves slap the shore with lazy aimlessness. It’s a pretty beach—soft white sand; stray pieces of pretty, water-smoothed driftwood—a beach that Lydia thinks she would enjoy on a sunny, _warm_ day with a significantly cheerier companion. They’re here at a perfect hour, too: late evening, with just enough of a moon to see the shifting of the water, the white flash of Allison’s eyes (and her teeth, if she would smile). In different circumstances, Lydia’s fairly sure she’d already be considering the best way to go about getting Allison to go skinny dipping with her. As it is, she just sits, stares blankly at the water, and feels a prick of annoyance to accompany each goosebump that rises on her bare legs.

She turns different ideas over in her mind; she entertains, briefly, the idea of getting up and leaving and letting Allison find a different ride for the hours back home. She ponders telling Allison she loves her, but she’s pondered that before, and she knows in her heart that nothing is different about right now. (Besides, this is not the Allison she wants to love. Oh, she still _does_ —but _this_ love, for _this_ Allison makes her heart ache instead of smile.)

It’s only when the moon’s light is swallowed by a gauzy cloud that floats between it and the Earth that Lydia breaks the silence again. She’d like to say she chooses the moment for dramatic purpose, or simply because it’s a shift after all the static, but neither of those is the reason.

She looks at Allison, comforted (even though she feels like she’s cheating) by the shadows that make Allison’s features difficult to see clearly.

“Look,” she says, too tired of this to be anything softer than matter-of-fact. “I don’t know—” she gestures vaguely around them “—what you came here looking for, but I’m tired, I’m cold, and I’m sick of talking to someone who’s not talking back.”

Allison is responseless, which is not unexpected, but makes Lydia swallow back a dull punch of pain regardless.

“I’m going home, Allison. It’s almost an hour back to Beacon Hills, and it’s dark already.” She presses to her feet, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. Her legs are studded with goosebumps. She takes a breath, looks at Allison, who’s still planted on the damn bench. “All right,” she says crisply, “whatever, take your time—but don’t take too long, or I swear I’m leaving without you.”

Allison stays silent, staring at the ocean. Her eyes are empty, empty hollows of nothingness and apathy, and Lydia can see Allison’s face all too clearly with the moon peering out from around the clouds again. Lydia clenches her jaw.

“Say something,” she demands. “Say ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ or ‘I’ll be fine, Lydia, just leave my grumpy ass here all night.’”

Nothing.

Lydia closes her eyes, a frustrated smile wrenching her face. “ _Damn_ it, Allison!”

Allison looks up at her and blinks, and Lydia hates hates hates the deadness of her expression.

“This is _not_ who you are, Allison Argent! I remember who you are, okay? This is not who I remember! I need you to be—I need you to be happy Allison, Allison who sneaks out after curfew to go bowling or fight a war depending on the weekend. I need—I need Allison who moans about her dad and begs me to pick out clothes for dates and shocks Peter Hales’s cocky werewolf ass so we can laugh about it later!” Frustration knots in her chest and pours out her mouth and courses through her veins, and she’s so _mad_ and so scared that she’ll never get back the Allison she remembers and—and Allison’s blinking up at her with the same dead eyes she’s had for months, the hint of a frown creasing her forehead.

“Damn it, Allison!” Lydia snaps again. “Just—talk to me, for god sakes! I need you to talk to me, okay?”

There’s the slightest tinge of emotion in Allison’s expression, the most subtle widening of her eyes with concern.

Tension hangs in the quiet air for a moment, and then it dissipates, a wave melting back out into the calm sea.

Lydia’s still standing, feet facing Allison even though she said she was going to the car. Her stance feels unsteady, high heels on sand.

Feeling suddenly stupid and small and tired, Lydia sinks back down onto the bench. (It’s just as splintery and hard as it was a moment ago.)

Allison is quiet beside her, a void of non-communication and apathy, a hole where Lydia used to have a best friend.

Lydia closes her eyes.

The lapping of the water at the wet sand comes in an uneven rhythm. Lydia’s never found the noise particularly relaxing. She sits with the breeze biting her cold cheeks and gritty sand infiltrating her pumps and slivers of rough wood threatening to lodge in the skin of her legs, and she thinks how stupid, how unbelievable it is that she drove all the way out here with a girl who’s barely spoken two words this entire time.

They never would’ve sat so long in silence before. There’s too much to discuss, always has been: boys, deadly monsters, grades, weapon maintenance, nail polish. Even after an embarrassing emotional outburst like the one Lydia just had, old Allison would’ve never been quiet for this long. She would’ve said—

“Lydia?”

The waves _ruuush... ruuush... ruuush..._ onto the shore. Lydia raises her head slowly. She looks at Allison.

Allison looks—she looks like _Allison_. Weariness still decorates her eyes, but she’s looking at Lydia like she’s worried about her and like she’s ready to kick the ass of whatever upset her friend, and enough hope swells in Lydia’s throat that it hurts.

(She tries to shove the hope away, because hope is dangerous and terrible and leads to only disappointment, but yeah, that’s futile.)

“Lydia, I’m so, so sorry,” Allison says, and holds up her hand immediately to stop Lydia from protesting. “I am, all right? I need you to know that. Before I—before I talk, I need you to know that.”

Lydia’s holding her breath. She nods.

There’s actual emotion on Allison’s face—an earnest need for Lydia to hear her, believe her; a spike of relief at Lydia’s nod. Then apprehension, thoughtfulness as she finds words.

Then pain. “I hurt,” she says, and now there’s enough emotion to audibly clog her throat as she smiles unhappily, “ _so_ many people.”

“Allison,” Lydia says gently, “that wasn’t you. We all know it wasn’t you—no one blames you for anything.”

Allison shakes her head several times quickly, rueful smile fixed in place. “Before that, too,” she says, voice a little thick with grief. “Boyd, Erica—Lydia, I _shot_ at my _friends_. I did—I did so many bad things, and I thought I could just move past it, but then that thing…” she shakes her head.

The sound of the waves fills the space between them for a moment. From somewhere a distance behind them, a car honks.

“What if—one way or another—this is always a part of me? Maybe it’s Gerard manipulating me, or maybe it’s some ancient evil spirit riding around in my body—but either way, I’m doing terrible things, and what if—what if I can’t ever get rid of it?”

“Allison,” Lydia says, but can’t organize her thoughts quickly enough. Where does she even begin?

Allison shakes her head again, gaze returning to the water. “You said you remember who I am, but Lydia, what if—what if this is who I am?”

“No,” Lydia says.

Allison glances at her, but only for a second before her eyes slide away. _Allison Argent_ is scared, and Lydia doesn’t like it.

“That is _not_ who you are,” Lydia states plainly. “It’s not.” She smiles lightly. “Allison, it’s not.”

“Well, I definitely don’t know who I was before all this,” Allison mumbles.

At that, Lydia rolls her eyes. “Please, Allison. You were the girl who kept dating Scott McCall for months after your dad forbade it. You were the girl who snuck out to fight for your friends when it was both dangerous and unallowed.” Lydia has to bite down a grin. “Allison, you’re the girl who stole a condom from your Aunt’s bag the _first_ time your boyfriend came over for dinner.” Lydia leans to bump her shoulder against Allison’s. “Come on. Don’t tell me you don’t remember sneaking out of the house to go bowling, you wild child.”

The reminder brings a thin smile to Allison’s lips, but it fades almost immediately.

“Lydia… I don’t know if I can be her anymore. After everything?” Another shake of her head. “I can’t be the same person after all that. I just wouldn’t know how.”

Lydia _hmm_ s easily. “Well, you don’t have to be the same person. You just don’t get to keep being the girl who never talks to her best friend.”

“Sorry,” Allison mumbles.

Lydia waves a hand. “Does that sound like a deal?”

Allison glances at her. “Does what sound like a deal?”

“You don’t have to be the old you—but you can’t keep being this miserable, silent version of my best friend, either. Okay?”

After a moment, Allison nods.

“Oh, thank god,” Lydia exhales. “Great, good talk—can we go now? I’m about to lose a toe to frostbite.”

Allison’s lips curl back in a grin and an almost-laugh. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’ll be as dramatic as I want to,” Lydia snips, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she stands. Giddy energy dances in her chest. Allison is speaking to her, Allison smiled! She turns back, extending a hand. “Now let’s _go_ ,” she urges.

Allison hesitates. A bit of the playfulness is back in her eyes; her grin takes a thoughtful tilt. “We’re at the beach,” she says.

“Ye-es,” Lydia sings, nodding. “I’m aware of that, Allison. Now can we go?”

“We’re at the beach, and you haven’t dragged me skinny dipping yet,” Allison points out.

“Allison, it’s freezing out. Why would I suggest we take off our clothes and jump in the ocean?”

Allison laughs. (Lydia’s internal organs leap.) “Because it’s the kind of thing you _do_ , Lydia.” She hesitates a second, smile faltering, then seems to find renewed confidence, pushing to her feet. “It’s the kind of thing I do, too,” she says decisively. She grips the hem of her jacket and grins. “Come on,” she prods, “last one in the water has to drive home.”

For several seconds, Lydia watches in stunned silence as Allison elbows her way out of her jacket, then t-shirt. By the time she’s shimmying out of her jeans, Lydia stops gaping and starts shedding her layers of coats, kicking off her heels as she goes. She loses sight of Allison as she pulls her dress over her head, gains it again as she throws the dress to the sand.

They tear across the sand in tandem and then the icy water is scalding Lydia’s feet, ankles, calves. They splash into the shallow waves, naked, gasping at the chill, and Lydia can’t help but be aware of the fact that this is the most ridiculous, crazy thing they’ve done in a long, long time.


End file.
